Christian Ward
Cancer As Shapeshifter
At first, it understood the unspoken rule,
presenting itself as the elegant fountain
pen of a dragonfly’s fuselage, the land-cloud
of a sleeping swan, a starling overconfident
in a peacock’s shimmer. Its childish side
played hide and seek with technicians
and consultants, slipping into my bloodstream
as a canoeing fire salamander blowing
wildfire kisses, a stick insect indistinguishable
from the dulled nerves, a slither of tinfoil
acting as a silverfish. Every susurration
gave it away. Its aggression manifested
as a laser beam of red monarchs burning
a hole in my spine. I carried the weight
of a hunting jaguar for months. As the treatment
progressed, spring-bright parakeets
did fly-bys, grasshoppers sang in the fallow
fields of my body, and hares made boxing
gyms of whatever grassy patches could be found.
Some nights, I dreamt my cancer revealed its true self:
the sickly childhood plane tree outside
my bedroom window, always peering.
An owl at its centre, flashing a scythe for a smile.